GOD'S OUTCAST 

▼ ^ ALL CLEAR ^ ^ 
GOD OF MY FAITH 



w w 



THREE PLAYS BY ^ ^ 
J.HARTLEY MANNERS 





Class _T„Rig^5- 

BookiiLClrii 



COeSRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



DB&M&TIC WOSKS OF I. OUITIEY MAHNBae 



THREE PLAYS 



ALL CLEAR 
GOD OF MY FAITH 

AND 

GOD'S OUTCAST 



BY J. HARTLEY MANNERS 

Peg O' My Heart 

A Novel on the Comedy 

Happiness 

and Two Other Plays 

Wreckage 

An Arrangement in 
Three Acts 

Out There 

A Dramatic Composition 



THREE PLAYS 



ALL CLEAR 
GOD OF MY FAITH 

AND 

GOD'S OUTCAST 

BY 

J. HARTLEY MANNERS 




NEW XSJr YORK 
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



^^' 






N^' 



COPYRIGHT, 1920, 
BY J. HARTLEY MANNERS 

ALL BIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THOSE 
OF TRANSLATION 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA 

2)CLA559945 



FOREWORD 

Written during the horrors of the unjust and cruel 
war forced by Germany upon civilisation, these plays, 
founded on actual incidents, may serve to keep alive 
remembrance of some of the barbarous outrages per- 
petrated by the Hun on innocent and wretched peoples. 
The attitude of many who took no active part in the 
recent strife is to urge people to forget as quickly as 
possible that such cowardly brutalities were ever com- 
mitted and to insist, now that peace has come through 
the defeat-at-arms of the Prussian hordes, that busi- 
ness and social relations be resumed with Germany 
as in pre-war days. I contend that no civilised human 
being who is a free agent will do either. Whenever 
we are asked to speak to or trade with Germans let 
us glimpse back but a few years and recall the atroci- 
ties in Belgium and Northern France from which the 
populations of those devastated lands will suffer for 
generations. German soil is untouched. She is pre- 
paring to flood the world with her agents in order to 
restore the prestige she lost by her wanton, dastardly 
and atrocious acts. She will again attempt to under- 
mine the business of civilised countries, betray the 
hospitality of their citizens and spread foul German 
propaganda in everv decent community. It is for 

[v] 



FOREWORD 

civilised peoples to take their stand now against such 
an invasion. And they fvill if they remember the 
old, the crippled, the women and little children done to 
death, from the air, in poverty-stricken districts; if 
they revive in their minds the murders at sea of poor 
fishermen and the sailors and passengers on unde- 
fended ships; if they keep ever-present the loathing 
they felt when their gallant sons, brothers and hus- 
bands who went to France in the sacred cause of 
Liberty were poisoned as vermin by the cowardly and 
malignant Prussian. War had at one time a majesty. 
As conducted by the Prussian hordes, led by their 
infamous officers, it descended to actions more unspeak- 
able than history records of the savage or the beast. 
Let civilisation grasp the all-too-evident fact that they 
are a race apart, unfit to associate with, and the great 
lesson of the terrible holocaust will have been learnt 
and some definite good come out of the years of travail. 
Already German propaganda is spreading throughout 
the United States. It is primarily directed against 
America's strongest ally — Great Britain. Individu- 
als and newspapers of pro-German sympathies daii}^ 
attack at street corners, in meetings, and in print the 
country through whose intervention civilisation was 
saved, the waterways of the world held open, the Ger- 
man fleet rendered powerless, so that troops came from 
every corner of the world in order that barbarity could 
be crushed. When men attack Great Britain from the 
platform or in print they become self-accused German- 
sympathisers, and as such are a danger in civilised com- 

[ri] 



FOREWORD 

munities. It is the duty of every citizen who loves 
libertv and fair-play to counteract by every means m 
his or her power the dangerous, insidious teachings of 
such German-svmpathisers, masquerading under many 
guises, against the country that has given to the United 
States the groundwork of her just laWs and the inspira- 
tion of her glorious Freedom. 

J. Hartley Manners. 
December, 1919. 



[vii] 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

All Clear o . , , 13 



God of My Faith 49 

AND 

God's Outcast 75 



[ix] 



Written Avgust, 1918 



ALL CLEAR 

A Protest 



"Hell watch over the weakest 
Until the 'All Clear/ " 

[From a hymn written by a child^ aged 7 years, as 
a prayer to God for protection during the Hun air 
raids over the poverty-stricken sections of London. 
Poor women and little children were the chief sufferers 
from this form of German barbarity.] 



[11] 



THE PERSONS IN THE PROTEST. 

Matthew Blount, D.D. 

*'Varnish'* 

"Leggy" 

NORAH 

The incident^ true in substance, veracious in det^ 
occurs in an unhappy section of London where 1 
struggle for life is keenest, the opportunities for j 
remote. Into these wretched districts the incomparal 
( !) German warriors brought desolation and vioh 
death. Of such brutes is the kingdom of the Hun. 



[12] 



ALL CLEAR 

Notes,— 'TAKE COVER" in six-inch letters. 
The "WARNING" is the explosion of a bomb. 
The "ALL CLEAR" signal is a bugle call by boy 

scouts — "Da, da !". 

The incident takes place in a little room in a tenement 
house. It is about half-past-eight at night in the 
early winter, A moaning wind rises and falls, 
whistles and screams without. It does not disturb the 
play of a sturdy little boy of ten and a thin, pale, 
active little girl of nine. Both are of the very poor. 
Their clothes have been repeatedly mended. Their 
boots are broken. But their spirits are high and their 
voices shrill as they bend their best energies to the 
task in hand. 

In the fireplace a dim fire is feebly smouldering. On 
the hob is a kettle. Hard by a battered, grimy dresser 
holds the few utensils necessary for the meagre wants 
of the occupants. A rough table with a faded, cheap 
cloth is set for supper. It consists of half a loaf 
of bread and some margarine. A cup and saucer 
stand ready for the war-time stimulant of the very 
poor — tea. 

The room is below the street level. A small, square win- 
dow looks out into the area. The blind is drawn. 
The street door opens direct from the area into the 
[13] 



ALL CLEAR 

room. Some six steps separate the room from the 
street. 

A flickering oil lamp burns unsteadily on the centre of 
the table. Tmo beds are in the far corner. One is 
very small. 

The game on which the children are intent is known as 
"Zepps*' and graphically, through the medium of a 
child's observation, portrays the outstanding features 
of the early Zeppelin raids on the city of London. 

The little boy has smeared on a large piece of soiled 
paper with the black heads of used matches the words 
''Take Cover" and hars pinned it on the front of his 
ragged jacket. He is standing at the top of the steps, 
very erect, shoulders well back, and head high. 



BOY 



GIRL 



Are ye ready? 
Where will I be? 

BOY 

Walk across as if ye mjos in the street. 

GIRL 

All right! [Runs across to the corner where the 
beds are.] 

BOY 

Go! An' not too fast! [Girl walks daintily across, 
picking her steps. Boy, tapping his chest with the "No- 
tice** on it and assuming as deep and commanding 
[14] 



ALL CLEAR 

a voice as he can muster.] Take Cover! Take Cover! 
Down to the cellar ! Indoors everyone ! Quick as you 
can! Take Cover! Take Cover! [He moves slowly 
down the steps. The little girl gives a cry and runs 
back near the fireplace, moaning, and pressing her 
fingers to her ears as though to shut out the sound of 
guns. The bay rushes to the fireplace, tears off the 
paper, takes up the fire-irons, clambers up on to the 
table, and cries.] Boom! Boom! Splatter! Boom! 
Boom! Boom! Crash! [Throws the fire-irons on the 
floor.] 

GIRL 

[Faintly.] Oh! 

BOY 

Louder ! 

GIRL 

Oh! 

BOY 

Much louder! Ye've been hit! 

GIRL 

[Loudly.] Oh ! 

BOY 

Fall down! [The little girl falls,] Go on! "My 
head ! My head !" 

GIRL 



My head ? My head ! 



BOY 



Goon! [E^^citedly.] Die! Ah>h-h! 
[15] 



ALL CLEAR 

GIRL 

Ah-h-h! [She closes her eyes and falls gingerly 
hacJc.^ 

BOY 

[Jumps down and snatches up the "Notice/* pins it 
on again, runs up the steps, and in a deep voice calls.] 
"All Clear!" [Girl sits up.] Lie down! Ye're dead! 
[Girl falls back.] "All Clear!" [Moves down the 
steps.] Ah! One struck here! Bad business! 
[Marches across and looks down at little girl.] Dear, 
dear, dear ! Her head blown off ! Very bad business ! 
Poor thing! Gi'e me a 'and, Alf ! We'll taike 'er to 
the mortch'ry! [Bends down to pick her up.] 'Eavy, 
ain't she? 

[A loud knock sounds at the street door. The girl 
springs up frightenedly .] 

BOY 

[In a rvhisper.] Wait a minit! [He picks up the 
fire-irons and puts them hack in the fireplace, takes off 
the "Notice'* and crushes it into a hall which he thrusts 
into his trousers pocket.] 
[Knock at door is heard again.] 

BOY 

[Whispers.] All right! [The little girl runs up the 
step>s and opens the door. A grave, middle-aged, weary- 
looking man in the garb of a clergyman of the Church 
of England is standing patiently. He is the Reverend 
Matthew Blount.] 

[16] 



ALL CLEAR 

BLOUNT 

Mrs. Drind lives here? 

GIRL 

Yes, sir. 

BLOUNT 

Is she in? 

GIRL 

No, sir. 

BLOUNT 

Oh! Will she be long.? 

GIRL 

What's the time? 

BLOUNT 

[Consulting his watch.] Ten minutes to nine. 

GIRL 

No, sir. She won't be long. 

BLOUNT 

[Coming in, closing the door, walking down the steps 
and looking at the flushed boy and the excited little 
girl.'] Are you her children? 

GIRL 

[Shaking her head.] No, sir. 

BOY 

[Pointing to the small bed in the corner.] That's 
hers. 

[17] 



ALL CLEAR 

BLOUNT 

[Goes over and looks at the little hedJ\ Boy? 

BOY 

[Disdainfully. '\ Naa. 

BLOUNT 

How old is she? 

GIRL 

Three, sir. 

BOY 

Go on ! Look at her. Ye can't wake her. 
Doctor's given her a draught. 

BLOUNT 

[Turning hack the cover and looking at the sleeping 
child.'] Is she IH? 

GIRL 

Yes, sir. 

BOY 

Only a cold. 

GIRL 

We're minding her. 

BOY 

She is. I'm keepin' 'er company. 

BLOUNT 

[Smiling.] What's your name? 

BOY 

"Varnish." 

[18] 



ALL CLEAR 

BLOUNT 

[Laughing.^ Why? 

BOY 

'Cause me faice is alwa's shiny. Hers is "Leggy." 
Look at 'em! [Pointing at the little girl's long legs 
which the shortness of her dress accentuates.^ 

BLOUNT 

And what are your other names? 

GIRL 

Povey. 

BOY 

Balch. 

BLOUNT 

I've not seen you at St. Luke's. 

BOY 

Naa. 

GIRL 

[Shakes her head.^ 

BLOUNT 

Don't you go to church? 

BOY 

Mother does. I mind the kids. 

GIRL 

Me, too. 

[19] 



ALL CLEAR 

BLOUNT 

Where do you live? 

GIRL 

3 Flint's Rents. 

BOY 

1 Mason Mews. 

BLOUNT 

[Making note in hook.] I'll call on your mothers. 

BOY 

Better not! Mine's a Methydist. 

GIRL 

An' mine's Salvation Army. 

BLOUNT 

I'll call, just the same. 

BOY 

All right! But I warned ye! 

BLOUNT 

Your mothers might like you to have a little holiday 
in the country. 

BOY 

Mine wouldn't. 

GIRL 

Nor mine. She couldn't spare me. She's away all 
day — saime as Mrs, Drind — on'y Mother's home by six. 

[20] 



ALL CLEAR 

Then I come 'ere till nine an' watch 'er. [Pointing to 
the little bed.] 

BOY 

I don' want to go, anyway. [Shakes his head.] I'd 
miss it all. 

BLOUNT 

What would you miss? 

BOY 

The Zepps. See the raid larst night? 

BLOUNT 

[Sighs.] Yes. 

BOY 

I didn't think it was much to maike a fuss about. 

BLOUNT 

Didn't you? 

BOY 

Did you? 

BLOUNT 

Weren't you afraid? 

BOY 

[Contemptuously.] Naa ! I ain't afraide o' them 
air-pins. 

GIRL 

Mother an' me goes to the Armj^ Shelter an' waits 
till it's over. 

[21] f 



ALL CLEAR 

BLOUNT 

Where do you go? \To the hoyJ] 

BOY 

To the top o* Jubilee Hill an' watch *em — when I 
can dodge Mother. She goes down in Mrs. Parfitt's 
cellar — the butcher's. Stinkin ' down there ! Miss all the 
fun, an* the noise scares ye ! I like to be up high where 
ye can see everything. Wasn' that feller larst night a 
blinkin' coward? Wouldn* fight! Ran away! [Re- 
gretfully.'] I wish they'd got the blighter. 

BLOUNT 

You shouldn't be out at such a time, my little man. 
It isn't fair to your mother — or to yourself. You might 
be struck. 

BOY 

Not me! I'd dodge 'em. I'm very quick. An' the 
bombs drops very slow. 

GIRL 

I'm not afraid now. I used to be when they come 
first. But one night me an' mother ran into a shelter, 
an' the preacher was there — like you, 'e was — an' 'e told 
me not to be afraid o' the noise o' the guns. 'E said it 
was somethin' to be thankful for an' glad about. An' 
'e said I ought to thank God for every sound of a gun 
'cause it meant pertection. The greater the sound the 
safer we was, *e said. So I don' mind 'em now. Wen 

[22] 



ALL CLEAR 

the great big *uns go orf we all say, "Thank God for 
that!" 

BLOUNT 

[Smiling.] The preacher was quite right. What 
shelter do you go to? 

GIRL 

St. Bartholomew's. Nice there! Gives us corfy an* 
caikes w'ile the raid's on, and keep singin' all the time. 
Me an* mother kind o' look forward to 'em. An' we 
'ave a poetess. 

BLOUNT 

[Smiling.] Oh? 

GIRL 

Yaas. She ain't eight yet. Seven-an'-'arf . 'Er moth- 
er's in the Christmas-cracker traide. Wrote a 'ymn, all 
by 'erself, she did. Without no 'elp from no one. Like 
to 'ear it? 

BLOUNT 

Yes. [Sits.] 

GIRL 

[Recites.] God is our refuge. 

Don't be dismayed. 

He will protect us 

All through the raid. 

When danger is threatening 

We never need fear. 

He'll watch over the weakest 

Until the "All Clear." 
Ain't it good? 

[23] 



ALL CLEAR 

BLOUNT 

Yes. Very good indeed. 

BOY 

Sickenin' ! [Laughs derisively.] Blinkin' silly ! 
[Sits up on the table dangling his feet.] 

BLOUNT 

I'll tell you of another little girl who is as much a 
hero as any of the brave soldiers fighting to defend civi- 
lization. Her name is Maggie Brice. She came in 
one night during a raid to my Relief Depot with her 
little brother of seven. The mother was missing. The 
two little children were homeless. After they had been 
told where to go for the night the little girl remembered 
that there was a baby belonging to the woman 
upstairs where they lived that had been asleep when the 
bomb exploded. The mother had gone out shopping, 
and hadn't been seen since. The two little children set 
out to find the baby but half-way there the boy's cour- 
age failed him and he ran back to his new friends. 

BOY 

What a blinker! 

BLOUNT 

[Smiles at him, then continues.] But Maggie went 
on, and in the dark groped about among the ruins and 
piles of bricks until she found the baby. It was then 
too dark to venture back, so she sat nursing the baby 
in the ruins all night. The next morning she arrived 
[24] 



ALL CLEAR 

triumphantly at my Relief Depot with the baby in her 
arms. 

GIRL 

[Ecccitedli/.] Was the baby's mother all right? 

BLOUNT 

Yes. Her joy at seeing it was wonderful. 

GIRL 

What a nice story ! 

BLOUNT 

It's true. 

BOY 

Pretty good for a girl ! I don' mind the dark. I wish 
I was big anufF to go up an' fight the blinkers. 

BLOUNT 

Bring your mother to my Relief Depot when the next 
raid comes. I'll take good care of you. 



[Shakes his head.] Mother likes the cellar. An' I 
want to watch. I ain't afraid of anythin' them Germans 
does. 

BLOUNT 

Ah! Where does Mrs. Drind work? 

BOY 

Black & Grimm's match factory. 
[25] 



ALL CLEAR 

[The door opens quietly and Norah enters. She 
closes the door and comes down the steps. She is a 
young, pale, sad woman of 25, poorly hut respectably 
dressed* She smiles wearily at the children and hurries 
over to the little bed, but stops when she sees Blount.] 

BLOUNT 

I am the rector of St. Luke's Church. May I have 
a few moments? 

NORAH 

Yes, sir. [To girl, as she goes to the bed.] How is 
she.'^ 



Been asleep a hour. Doctor caime an' give 'er some- 
thin*. 

NORAH 

Did she cough much.'* 

GIRL 

Quite a bit till 'e came. 'E says she's goin' on very 
nice, though. 

NORAH 

Did he? 

GIRL 

[Nods.] She's on the mend, 'e says, if she goes on as 
she's bin goin', 

NORAH 

[Arranging the covers and smoothing the child's hair 
and pressing her brow and hands.] Asleep an hour? 
[26] 



ALL CLEAR 

GIRL 

More 'n a ^our. Not a sound. 

BOY 

An' we 'ad a raid, too. 

NORAH 

[Starts anxiously.] What? 

BOY 

[Nods affirmatively.] We played at "Zepps." [Imi- 
tates.] Take Cover! Bang! Bang! Crash! She got 
killed. I was just taikin' 'er to the mortch'ry w'en 'e 
came in. [Laughs.] 

NORAH 

[Shivering.] Why do you play such games? 

BOY 

Blinkin' good game! 

[Norah looks at the clergyman, who smiles at her.] 

BLOUNT 

He doesn't seem to be disturbed by them. To him 
they just suggest a new game. [Pats the hoy*s head.] 

NORAH 

What would become of them if anything happened to 
their parents? What would become of 'er if anything 
happened to me? 

BLOUNT 

[Gravely.] Exactly! The children suffer the most. 
[27] 



ALL CLEAR 

NORAH 

[Cuts some bread, covers it with margarine, and gives 
it to the children. Then she gives the little girl a 2>(^n- 
ny.] Come again to-morrow evening before Mrs. Masc- 
ly goes, will ye? 

GIRL 

Yes, Mrs. Drind. 

nLOUNT 

[Gives them a coin each.] Tell your mothers you 
met me, that we became good friends, and that I will 
call on them. It is not a question of what religions your 
mothers are. All are one in protection and charity. 



All right! But Mother's a real hobstinate Methydist. 
So Father says — blinkin' hobstinate. '-Bye. \Runs up 
the steps, opens the door, and looks out.] Fine night 
for a r.'iid ! Blinkin' dark! 



NOllAII 



[Shudders, puts her arms protectingly aroiind th 
little girl, and takes her to the steps. Calls to the hoy. 
Ye'll take her to her door? 



BOY 



'Course I will. Come along, "Leggy." Ta, ta ! 
[The little children run out into the night. Norah 
closes the door and comes down the steps.] 
[28] 



ALL C L 1-: A R 



BLOUNT 

We have a Shelter — a Relief Depot — in connection 
witli St. Luke's. T should he so jrlad if you would bring 
your baby to us whenever tlie raids liappen. 

N OH A II 

I liaven't been able to lake lier out for weeks, sir. 
She's 'ad a cold — a bad cold. I wouldn' dare. It 'uld 
kill 'cr. They've lost so many babies round 'ere takin' 
'em out o' their warm beds into tlie niglit air. Their 
little lungs earn' stand it. Pneinnonia — that's what they 
gets. An* they die. Lots of 'em go that way. 

BLOUNT 

I know. 

NOUAll 

We 'ave some charnce if we stay indoors. An* we're 
below the street *ere. 

BLOUNT 

You'd be much safer at the Sliclter. And we take 
special care of little children. Wrap her up warmly. 
Do come. 

NOHAII 

All right, sir. Soon as she's better. W'en we was in 
Mile Rud, an* she was well, I took 'er to one once. Very 
kind they was, too. I usedn't to think much o' church. 
Father didn*t 'old with it w'en we was little. I know 
more w*at it means since we went to that Shelter. 



ALL CLEAR 

BLOUNT 

I'm glad of that. 

NORAH 

First time I went I was just shakin' wi' fear. The 
guns was shootin' that loud an' farst. Wen I saw the 
people a-singin' round a harmonium wi' the bombs 
a-droppin' outside I couldn' think 'ow they could do it. 
I was most dead o' fright^ an' 'oldin' 'er close to me 
breast. Cryin' she was^, too. Then someone started an 
'ymn, "O, for a faith that will not shrink/' an' I joined 
in — though me voice trembled so I could 'ardly speak. 
By the time we'd finished I didn' seem to fear nothin' 
much. Wen she gets well I'm goin' to church reg'lar. 
Father made me bitter about church. 'E didn't believe 
in nothin'; Atheist, 'e called 'isself. But I earn' be bit- 
ter about a place that was good to me an' 'er. 

BLOUNT 

Where's your husband? 

NORAH 

Killed in France these three years. 

BLOUNT 

[Commiseratingly.] Oh. 

NORAH 

"Gassed" 'e was. sir. 

[SO] 



ALL CLEAR 

BLOUNT 

[Nods."] Have you parents living? 

NORAH 

No, sir. They was murdered. 

BLOUNT 

Murdered ? 

NORAH 

The Germans murdered them^ sir. Killed 'em from 
the air. Murdered two old people. Mother 'adn't been 
out o' bed for two years. Paralysed she was. Burnt to 
death — she an' Father. 'E wouldn' leave 'er. Found 
'em together — burned to death. 

BLOUNT 

[Contracts his shoulders in pain.] Horrible. 

NORAH 

German work^ sir. The beasts ! [Blount sits think- 
ing.] Wen I was small we used to think 'ow wonderful 
soldiers was, sir. An' they was, too. Father took me 
w'en I was a kid to see 'em come back from South 
Africa. I can just remember 'em an' the crowds o' 
people cheerin'. They was brave. But they wasn' Ger- 
mans. Germans ! [Makes a moue of disgust as though 
expectorating something foul.] They're a brave lot! 
[31] 



ALL CLEAR 

Guns ain't enough. Swords ain't enough. Too clean for 
Germans, they are. They 'ad to find somethin' cowardly 
an' cruel an' dirty. An' they found it. Poison, that's 
what they found — poison-gas. My Luke got it. My 
man died that way. Choked to death. It's a foul death 
for brave men, ain't it, sir ? Poisoned like vermin ! My 
Luke ! On'y been married six months, sir. 'E rushed 
orf d'rec'ly it broke out. So 'appy an' cheerful, 'e 
was, sir. "I'll come back a general!" That's w'at 'e 
said. "See if I don't!" 'e said. Just choked to death 
'e was. Sergeant they'd maide 'im, too. 'E never saw 
'er. [Pointing to the child.] A good man 'e was to me, 
sir. Never drank nothin', an' fond of 'is 'ome. Was 
lookin* forward to 'er, too. 'Oped she'd be a boy. 'E'd 
'a' been so proud of 'er. An' everythin* goin' so well 
till it broke out ! Too good to larst, I used to think as I 
lay awaike o' nights thinkin' 'ow *appy we was. An' 
so it turned out. Too good to larst! 'Ere I am now, 
all alone — me an' 'er. 

BLOUNT 

How much do you earn? 

NORAH 

I got 'is pension — an' I maike eight shillin's at the 
fact'ry. I do pretty well. 'Cept w'en she's sick. Then 
there's doctors' bills an' med'cine. 

BLOUNT 

If I could get you away from London into munition 
work, would you go? You would be safer. It would be 
[32] 



ALL CLEAR 

healthier for your baby. And they'd pay you much bet- 
ter. 

NORAH 

I tried to afore I got this plaice. They said I wasn't 
strong enough. They want healthy, strong people, sir. 

BLOUNT 

We have a little place in Hampshire connected with 
St. Luke's where we send children and sick people from 
time to time for a week — longer if it isn't full. Would 
you like that.^* 

NORAH 

I'd lose me plaice, sir. 'Undreds waitin' for it. 

BLOUNT 

We have also a committee for finding employment. 
If you got really strong we might get you a good posi- 
tion under the government. 

NORAH 

[Dully, with no enthusiasm.'\ It 'ould be nice of ye, 
sir. But no one wants ye if ye've got a baby an' yer 
'ealth's poor. Babies 'ave a 'ard time in London, sir. 
I orf'n wonder so many of 'em comes through. She 
don' seem to pick up as she should. No light or air 
much 'ere. If anythin' 'appened to 'er I wouldn' want 
to live. She's all I got. An' so like 'im! [Her eyes 
full] 

[33] 



ALL CLEAR 



BLOUNT 



If you are willing I'll have you both sent to Hamp- 
shire as soon as there's room. There you'll have fresh 
air and simple good food. Your baby will thrive on it. 

NORAH 

All right ! An' thankin' ye ! 

BLOUNT 

[Rising.] And I will take up the other matter of em- 
ployment in the morning. 

NOR AH 

Cruel^ dependin' on strangers, ain't it? [Wistfulli/.] 
Luke 'ad a fortnight's 'oliday every year. Wen we was 
keepin' comp'ny 'e used to taike us to the sea. Wen 
we was married 'e took me to Wales. Beautiful it was. 
An' plenty o' friends we 'ad then. Alwa's laughin' an' 
jokin' 'e was. Everyone liked 'im. An' now 'e's lyin' 
in a foreign country without a stone to mark 'im. If 
'e'd 'a' died by a bullet or a sword or a cannon, w'y 
it was w'at 'e went out to taike a charnce of. But to be 
choked by poison, oh, my Gawd! [Fiercely.] I usedn't 
to believe in 'ell, sir. I thought it was a word to fright- 
en simple people an* children with. I didn't believe 
there was a Gawd who'd maike people suffer for all eter- 
nity, saime as churches taught. Now I 'ope 'e does. 
'E wouldn't be a good Gawd if 'e didn't. I 'opes the 
[34] 



ALL CLEAR 

brutes '00 burnt my father an' mother burn theirselves, 
so I do. An' burn forever. There should be a hell for 
them Wat good does it do them to kill us poor people? 
Frighten us into maikin' peace is w'at a woman told me. 
If I 'ad mv way we'd maike no peace wi' them beasts 
till the larst of 'em was burnin' in hell. I 'ope the 
wretches 'oo poisoned my 'usband is poisoned with sul- 
phur and brimstone as long as there's time. 

BLOUNT 

[Gently.] Don't say that. 

NORAH 

[Fiercely.] I mean it, sir. I 'ate 'em. [Her hands 
clenching.] I 'ate 'em. 

BLOUNT 

We shouldn't liate. We must try to forgive them as 
He did those who crucified Him. They know not what 
they do. 

NORAH 

\Hoth.] Oh, yes, they do. They know all right, sir. 
The man who sends them things over us knows w at 
•e's doin'. -E sends 'em to murder us. An' the fellers 
w'at drops bombs on poor, starvin' old people an' babies 
knows w'at they're doin', too. An' w'en this war s over 
an' thev're licked, I 'ope they'll torture em first an 
then kill 'em, sir. That's w'at I 'ope. An' thousan s 
like me. An' I pray to Gawd that 'e 'as an ell so that 
[35] 



ALL CLEAR 

their souls may go to everlasting torment. That's w'at 
I pray, sir. 

BLOUNT 

My poor young woman, no good can come out of hate. 

NORAH 

Then there's little good likely to come out of me. 
There's only one thing I've got to love, sir, — my baby. 
Wile I'm with 'er, or thinkin' of 'er, I believe in a good 
Gawd. I believe 'e wouldn' let no 'arm come to 'er. But 
if they kill 'er . . . [She moves away and looks down 
at her baby a moment, then goes back to Blount.^ 'Er 
poor father! Choked, 'e was, sir. That was German 
work, wasn't it, sir? Germans! If anyone wants to 
insult ye 'e calls ye German now, sir. It's the filthiest 
word ye can use round 'ere. The sweepin's of our pris- 
ons are gennelmen compared to them. Whatever they've 
done, they're payin' for it, ain't they? There ain't a 
gaol in England as 'olds a man 'oo burnt old men 
an* women an' little children to death, is there, sir? 
. . . Forgive 'em! I'll never forgive 'em. ... If it 
wasn't for 'er I'd arst 'em to send me out in the woman's 
array, sir. I'd like to be doin' somethin' in the sound 
of our guns, sir. I'd like to be near our guns. Every 
time they'd fire I'd say to meself, "There goes a dirty 
German's soul to 'ell." I say it now w'en I 'ear our 
guns a-shootin' at them beasts in the air. Fine work for 
men, ain't it? Droppin' death out o' the sky on us. 
'Ow long d'ye suppose Gawd'll let 'em go on, sir? 
[36] 



ALL CLEAR 

BLOUNT 

We're in his hands. This war is the scourge He has 
sent to chasten us with. 

NORAH 
Is it.? 

BLOUNT 

It is. And we must bear it because it is His will that 
we should. Some day it will pass — some blessed day ! — 
and though our souls have been tried we shall be the 
richer for it. 

NORAH 

Richer for it? 'Ow much richer shall I he, sir? No 
one — nothin' left but 'er. An' w'ile there's light in the 
day I'm indoors workin' to keep even this place over 'er. 
An' every night w'en I get back I'm wonderin' if she's 
died durin' the day. An' w'en they come in the dark me 
'ead's in a panic lest they do for 'er. I sit 'ere, watch- 
in* over 'er, me arms around 'er, waitin' for the "All 
Clear." . . . W'en them brutes is beaten down so's 
they can never rise again — then it'll be "All Clear." 
But not till then, sir. 

BLOUNT 

Don't think I can't feel for you. I do. Come to us. 
We'll try to lighten your way. You'll find the day 
easier and danger less difficult to face if you keep saying 
to yourself, "It is His will." 
[37] 



ALL CLEAR 



NOR AH 



I don't believe it. I don't believe it. No Gawd could 
be so cruel as to let them brutes torture people as they've 
done. If there was a good Gawd 'e'd send fire from 
'eaven to destroy 'em, an' as 'E won't we've got to. [Her 
hands clench and unclench nervously.'] Destroy 'em! 
That's it ! Destroy 'em ! Till none are left ! Not one ! 
The beasts ! Beasts ! Beasts ! [Her voice faints away 
though her lips continue to move.] 

BLOUNT 

We will gladly welcome you at our Shelter — as soon 
as you can bring her. [Making note in book.] To- 
morrow I will see about a little trip to the country. That 
will be splendid for you both. Keep a good heart, Mrs. 
Drind. Others are suffering too, and not a word of com- 
plaint. I have not escaped. I, too, am alone, Mrs. 
Drind. Tlie war has claimed everyone near and dear 
to me. Every one. And I say in all belief and sincer- 
ity, "It is His will." I say it from my heart. That is 
because I believe in Him. I do not permit myself ha- 
tred. It cripples. It tightens the heart. 

NORAH 

Mine is tight, sir. I feel like bursting sometimes 
w'en I think of my poor 'usband and my parents. I 
got to 'ate. An' I do. 

[38] 



ALL CLEAR 



BLOUNT 



[Sadly.] Justice is His. He will deliver us from 
our enemies if we believe in Him. He will render jus- 
tice to them. 

NORAH 

I want to see justice given 'em now — now. 

BLOUNT 

[Realises he can no longer persuade; touches her 
gently on the shoulder.] God protect you ! Good night ! 

NORAH 

Good-night;, sir! 

[He goes out. The wind rushes in through the door 
as he opens it, and moans as he shuts it behind him. 
Norah first looks at the sleeping child, then gives a ges- 
ture of great weariness. She goes to the fireplace and 
puts the kettle on the dull fire, then drags herself, grow- 
ing more and more listless every moment, to the table 
and cuts some bread. She tries to eat it. Puts it down. 
Sighs. Goes over to the bed and sits beside it, looking 
d&wn at the child.] I am not to 'ate them, my dear one. 
I'm not to 'ate the beasts 'oo poisoned your father an' 
burned mine an' me poor mother. I'm not to 'ate the 
brutes 'oo took away from you all joy before you ever 
came into the world. An' thousands an' thousands are 
like us to-night— ail alone, facing death— through them. 
We'll 'ate 'em, dear, won't we? An' as long as I've 
breath I'll curse 'em. An' so will you if you live and 
[39] 



ALL CLEAR 

grow up into a woman with not a sight to gladden your 

little eyes, not a soul near ye but me. We're the only 

ones near each other, dear. 

[The child moves uneasily and moans slightly. Norah 
smooths the child*s pillow and makes it easier for 
her, then drags herself listlessly to the door and bolts 
it, pours some water from the now boiling kettle into 
the cracked teapot and leaves it on the hob to draw. 
She clears away her hat and coat, making a place at 
the table. Faintly, from the distance, comes the sound 
of guns. She listens, terrified. People can be heard 
running, and low sounds of alarm come from the 
street. The sound of the guns increases. A voice of 
authority is heard all down the street, beginning quiet- 
ly, growing louder as the man passes, and then dying 
away, calling in stern, admonishing tones, *'Take 
cover!" "Take cover!" "Take cover!" She gives a 
little gasp, puts out the light, hurries over to the little 
bed, kneels down beside it, and spreads herself over 
the child, praying breathlessly and inaudibly. The 
guns grow louder, the sounds nearer and nearer. 
Explosions are heard from afar. Rapid-fire guns in- 
crease in volume until they seem over the house. A 
loud explosion comes as a bomb explodes in front of 
the house. The door is blown in, the place quivers, 
then a mass of debris pours in onto the bed. Norah 
gives a long, wailing cry, and falls away from the 
bed. Then silence. The guns go on and on. Explo- 
sions can be heard from distant parts as the raiders go 
on on their work of destruction. Two policemen ap- 
[40] 



ALL CLEAR 

pear in the opening made by the bomb. Each has 
his little placard, "Take Cover!" With the light of 
the lanterns fastened on their belts they move down 
the now shaky steps.'\ 

FIRST POLICEMAN 

Just the basement struck. The rest of the house is 
all right. 

SECOND POLICEMAN 

Who lives 'ere? 

FIRST POLICEMAN 

Only a woman and her child. 

SECOND POLICEMAN 

Perhaps she got out in time. 

FIRST POLICEMAN 

No fire, anyway. Better put this out. [Takes up 
kettle and pours the water on the dull fire. It hisses in 
protest as it goes out.] 

SECOND POLICEMAN 

When they sit round the peace-table I 'ope they 
maikes 'em pay for this. 

FIRST POLICEMAN 

Not they! Six months after the war's over they'll 
be sellin' German goods all over London. 

SECOND POLICEMAN 

Likely as not! We brousjht one of 'em down. See it? 
[41] 



ALL CLEAR 

FIRST POLICEMAN 

An* then w'at? They'll give 'em a military funeral 
at the taxpayers' expense an' taike us orf our regular 
jobs to keep the crowd back. An' if they're alive they'll 
be sent up to Donnington Hall an' fed on the fat o' the 
land. 

SECOND POLICEMAN 

I'd hang 'em^ out in the open. That's w'at I'd do. 

FIRST POLICEMAN 

So would any Christian. 
[During the foregoing they have been searching through 
the ruins rvith the aid of their lanterns. He finds 
Nor ah. ] 

FIRST POLICEMAN 

Hello! [He kneels dorvn, puts the light on her face, 
and listens to her heart.^ 

SECOND POLICEMAN 

Is she alive? 

FIRST POLICEMAN 

Don't know. [Waits.] Yes. Only just, though. 
Where's the kid? [Taking out a large handkerchief 
and rviping away the blood and dust.] 

SECOND POLICEMAN 

[Finds the shattered bed and turns his light on to 
a shapeless mass that once was Norah*s little child. 
Under his breath he ejaculates.] Oh, my Gawd! 
[42] 



Done in? 
Just a mess. 



ALL CLEAR 

FIRST POLICEMAN 

SECOND POLICEMAN 

FIRST POLICEMAN 



The dirty brutes ! Give me a hand ! [They go to each 
side of Norah and raise her gently.'] Get her down to 
the station. It's too far to the 'orspital. [Norah opens 
her eyes and moans.'] Come on, ma'am! You'll be all 
right. She's comin' to. [Moving her slowly across, half 
lifted off the ground.] 

NORAH 

[Faintly.] Where's my baby? 

FIRST POLICEMAN 

It'll be all right, ma'am. Come along! [They reach 
the steps.] 

NORAH 

My baby ! Where's my baby ? 

FIRST POLICEMAN 

Lift her! Baby will be all right, ma'am. That's it! 

NORAH 



Wliere's — my — baby ? 
[They carry her up the steps.] 
[48] 



ALL CLEAR 



NORAH 



Where's — my — baby ? 
[_They disappear into the street. The guns begin to 
grow fainter and fainter, then they stop. Footsteps 
are heard rushing past. Street cries. Laughter of 
children. The "All Clear!" is sounded. Faintly ^ 
from the distance, as if carried in on the breeze, comes 
the sound of Norah*s tired, frightened voice of agony. '\ 
I — want — my — baby. 

CURTAIN, 



[44] 



Written July, 1917 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

A Play for Pacifists 
In One Act 



"If the God of my Faith be a liar 
Who is it that I shall trust?" 



[47] 



THE PEOPLE IN THE PLAY 

Nelson Dartrey 
Dermod Gilruth 



The action passes in Dartrey's Chambers in the late 
Spring of Nineteen Hundred and Fifteen. 

[The lowering of the Curtain momentarily will denote 
the passing of several days.] 



[48] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

The curtain discloses a dark oak room. Nelson Dar- 
TREY is seated at a writing table studying maps. He 
is a man in the early thirties, prematurely rvorn and 
old. His face is burned a deep brick colour and is 
sharpened by fatigue and loss of blood. His hair is 
sparse, dry and turning grey. Around the upper part 
of his head is a bandage covered largely by a black 
skull-cap. Of over average height the man is spare 
and muscular. The eye is keen and penetrating; his 
voice abrupt and authoritative. An occasional flash 
of humour brings an old-time twinkle to the one and 
heartiness to the other. He is wearing the undress 
uniform of a major in the British army. The door 
bell rings. With an impatient ejaculation he goes in- 
to the passage and opens the outer door. Standing 
outside, cheerfully humming a tune, is a large, force- 
ful, breezy young man of twenty-eight. He is Der- 
MOD GiLRUTH. Splendid in physique, charming of man- 
ner, his slightly-marked Dublin accent lends a pi- 
quancy to his conversation. He has all the ease and 
poise of a travelled, polished young man of breeding. 
Dartrey's face brightens as he holds out a welcoming 
hand. 

1*9] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

DARTREY 

Hello, Gil. 

GILRUTH 

[Saluting him as he laughs genially.^ May I come 
into officer's quarters ? 

DARTREY 

I'm glad to have you. I'm quite alone with hcurs on 
my hands. [He brings Gilruth into the rooTn and wheels 
a comfortable leather arm chair in front of him.^ Sit 
down. 

GILRUTH 

Indeed I will not. Look at your desk there. I'll not 
interrupt your geography for more than a minute. 

DARTREY 

[Forces him into the chair.'\ I'm glad to get away 
from it. Why, you look positively boyish. 

GILRUTH 

And why not? I am a boy. [ChucklesJ] 

DARTREY 

What are you so pleased with yourself about.'' 

GILRUTH 

The greatest thing in the world for youth and high 
spirits. I'm going to be married next week. 
[50] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

DARTREY 

[Incredulously.] You're not? 

GILRUTH 

I tell you I am. 

DARTREY 

Don't be silly. 

GILRUTH 

What's silly about it? 

DARTREY 

Oh_, I don't know. 

GILRUTH 

Of course you don't know. You have never tried it. 

DARTREY 

I should think not. 

GILRUTH 

Well^ I'm going to and I want you to father me. 
Stand up beside me and see me through. Will you? 

DARTREY 

If you want me to. 

GILRUTH 

Well, I do want you to. 

DARTREY 

All right! 

[''51] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

GILRUTH 

You don't mind now? 

DARTREY 

My dear chap. It's charming of you to think of me. 

GILRUTH 

I've known you longer than anyone ever here. And I 
like you better. So there you are. 

DARTREY 

[Laughing.l Poor old Dermod! Well^ well! 

GILRUTH 

There's nothing to laugh at, or "well, well" about. 

DARTREY 

Do I know the ? 

GILRUTH 

[Shakes his head.'] She's never been over before. 
Everything will be new to her. I tell you it's going to 
be wonderful. I've planned out the most delightful trip 
through Ireland — she's Irish, too. 

DARTREY 

Is she.'' 

[52] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

GILRUTH 

But, like me, born in America. She's crazy to see the 
old country. 

DARTREY 

She couldn't have a better guide. 

GILRUTH 

[Enthusiastically.] She's beautiful, she's brilliant, 
she's good — she's everything a man could wish. 

DARTREY 

That's the spirit. Will you make your home over 
here } 

GILRUTH 

No. We'll stay till the autumn. Then I must go 
back to America. But some day when all this fighting 
is over and people talk of something besides killing 
each other, I want to have a home in Ireland. 

DARTKJEY 

I suppose most of you Irishmen in America want to 
do that.? 

GILRUTH 

Indeed they do not. Once they get out to America 
and do well they stay there and become citizens. My 
father did. Do you think he'd live in Ireland now? 
[53] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

Not he. He talks all the time about Ireland and the 
hated Sassenacks — that's what he calls you English — 
and he urges the fellows at home in the old country to 
fight for their rights. But since he made his fortune 
and became an American citizen the devil a foot has he 
ever put on Irish soil. He's always going, but he hasn't 
got there yet. And as for living there ! Oh, no, America 
is good enough for him, because his interests are there. 
I want to live in Ireland because my heart is there. 
[Springing wp.] Now I'm off. You don't know how 
happy you make me by promising to be my best man. 

DAHTREY 

My dear fellow 

GILRUTH 

And just wait until you see her. Eyes you lose your- 
self in, a voice soft as velvet: a brain so nimble that 
wit flows like music from her tongue. Poetry, too. She 
dances like thistledown and sings like a thrush. And 
with all that she's in love with me. 

DARTREY 

I'm delighted. 

GILRUTH 

I want her to meet you first. A snug little dinner 
before the wedding. She's heard so much against the 
English I want her to see the best specimen they've got. 
[54] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

[Dartre y laughs heartily.^ I tell you if you pass mus- 
ter with her you have the passport to Kingdom Come. 
[Laughing as well as he grips Dartre y's hand,^ 

DARTREY 

lAs they walk to the door.] When will it be? 

GILRUTH 

Next Tuesday. I'll ring you up and give you the full 
particulars. 

DARTREY 

In church.'* 

GILRUTH 

Church.^ Cathedral! His Eminence will officiate. 



DARTREY 

Topping. 

GILRUTH 

Well^ you see^ we Irish only marry once. So wc make 
an occasion of it. 

DARTREY 



Splendid. I'll look forward to it. 



GILRUTH 



[Looking at the bandage.] Is your head getting all 
right .^ 

[ 55 ] 



GOD OF MY FAITH ' 

DARTREY 

Oh dear, yes. It's quite healed up. I'll have this 
thing off in a day or two. [Touching the bandage.^ I 
expect to be back in a few weeks. 

GILRUTH 

[A noxiously.] Again ? 

DARTREY 

Yes. 

GILRUTH 

If ever a man had done his share, you have. 

DARTREY 

They need me. They need us all. 

GILRUTH 

The third time. 

DARTREY 

There are many who have done the same, 

GILRUTH 

[Shudders.l How long will it last? 

DARTREY 



Until the Hun is beaten. 

[56] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

GILRUTH 

Years, eh? 

DARTREY 

It looks like it. We've hardly begun yet. It will take 
a year to really get the ball rolling. Then things will 
happen. Tell me: how do they feel in America? 
Frankly. 

GILRUTH 

All the people who matter are pro-Ally. 

DARTREY 

Are you sure? 

GILRUTH 

I'm positive. 

DARTREY 

Are you? Come, now. 

GILRUTH 

Why, of course I am. 

DARTREY 

They may be pro-Ally, but they're not pro-English. 

GILRUTH 

That's true. Many of them are not. But if ever the 
test comes, they will be. 

[57] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

DARTREY 

[Shakes his head doubtfully.] I wonder. It seems 
a pity not to bury all the Bunker-Hill and Boston-tea- 
chest prejudices. 

GILRUTH 

You're right there. 

DARTREY 

Why your boys and girls are taught in their school- 
books to hate us. 

GILRUTH 

In places, they are. Now that I know the English 
a little I have been agitating to revise them. It all 
seems so damned cheap and petty for a big country to 
belittle a great nation, through the mouths of children- 

DARTREY 

There's no hatred like family hatred. After all, we're 
cousins, speaking the same tongue and with pretty much 
the same outlook. 

GILRUTH 

There's one race in America that holds back as strong- 
ly as it can any better understanding between the two 
countries, and that's my race — the Irish. And well I 
know it. I was brought up on it. There are men to-day, 
men of position, too, in our big cities who have openly 
said they want to see England crushed in this war. 
[58] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 



DARTREY 



So I've heard. It would be a sorry day for the rest 
of civilization, and particularly America, if we were. 

GILRUTH 

You can't convince them of that. They carry on the 
prejudices and hatred of generations. I have accused 
some of them of being actively pro-German; of tinker- 
ing with German money to foster revolution in Ireland. 

DARTREY 

Do you believe that.-* 

GILRUTH 

I do. Thank God there are not many of them. I 
have accused them of taking German money and then 
urging the poor unfortunate poets and dreamers to do 
the revoluting while they are safely three thousand miles 
away. I don't know of many who are willing to cross 
the water and do it themselves. Talking and writing 
seditious articles is safe. Take my own father. He 
says frankly that he doesn't want Germany to win be- 
cause he hates Germans. Most Irishmen do. But all 
the same he wants to see England lose. All the doubt- 
ful ones I know, who don't dare come out in the open, 
speak highly of the French and are silent when England 
is mentioned. I blame a great deal of that on your Gov- 
ernment. You take no pains to let the rest of the world 
know what England is doing. You and I know that 
[59] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

without the British fleet America wouldn't rest as easy 
as she does to-day, and without the little British army 
the Huns would have been in Paris and Calais months 
ago. We know that and so do many others. But the 
great mass of the people, particularly the Irish^ cry all 
the time, "What is England doing .'^" Your government 
should see to it that they know what she's doing. 

DARTREY 

It's not headquarters' way. 

GILRUTH 

I know it isn't. And the more's the pity. Another 
thing where you went all wrong. Why not have let 
Asquith clear up the Irish muddle? Why truckle to a 
handful of disloyal North of Ireland traitors? If the 
Government had courtmartialed the ring leaders, tried 
the rest for treason and put the Irish Government in 
Dublin, why, man, three-quarters of the male popula- 
tion of the South of Ireland would be in the trenches 
now. 

DARTREY 

Don't let us get into that. I was one of the officers 
who mutinied. I would rather resign my commission 
than shoot down loyal subjects. 

GILRUTH 

[Hotly.] Loyal? Loyal? When they refused to 
carry out their Government's orders? When they deny 

[60] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

justice to a long suffering people? Loyal! Don't 
prostitute the word. 

DARTREY 

{^Angrily. '\ I don't want to 



GILRUTH 

[Going on vehemently.] It's just that kind of pig- 
headed ignorance that has kept the two countries from 
understanding each other. Why shouldn't Ireland gov- 
ern herself. South Africa does. Australia does. And 
when you're in trouble they leap to your flag. Yet 
there is a country a few miles from you that sends the 
best of her people to your professions and they invari- 
ably get to the top of them. Irishmen have commanded 
your armies and Ireland has given you admirals for 
your fleet and at least one of us has been your Lord 
Chief Justice. Yet, by God, they can't be trusted to 
govern themselves. I tell you the English treatment of 
Ireland makes her the laughing-stock of the world. 

DARTREY 

[Opens the door, then turns and looks straight at Gil- 
ruth.] My head bothers me. Will you kindly 

GILRUTH 

[All contrition.'} I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to 
blaze out. Do forgive me like a good fellow. It's an 
old sore of mine and sometimes it makes me wince. It 
did just now. Don't be mad with me. 
[61] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

[The sound of a hoy's voice calling newspapers is heard 
faintly in the distance; then the hoarse tones of a man 
shouting indistinctly ; then a chorus of men and hoys 
comes nearer and nearer calling of some calamity. 
Dartrey hurries out through the outer door. Gil- 
ruth stands ashamed. He does not rvant to leave 
his friend in had hlood. He rvould like to put things 
right hefore going. He waits for Dartrey to come 
hack. 

[In a few moments Dartrey walks through the outer 
doorway and into the room. He is very white, very 
agitated, and his face is set and determined. He is 

■ reading the "special'* edition of an evening paper with 
great "scare" head lines. 

[The sound of the voices crying the news in the street 
grows fainter and fainter. 

[Dartrey stops in front of Gilruth and tries to speak, 
nothing coherent comes from his lips. He thrusts the 
paper into Gilruth's hands and watches his face as 
he reads. 

[Gilruth reads it once slowly, then rapidly. He stands 
immovahle staring at the news-sheet. It slips from 
his fingers and he cowers down, stooping at the shoul- 
ders, glaring at the floor.^ 

dartrey 

[Almost frenzied.'] Now will your country come in? 

Now will they fight for civilization? A hundred of her 

men, women and children done to death. Is that war? 

Or is it murder? Already men are reading in New 

[62] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

York and Washington of the sinking of that ship and 
the murder of their people. What are they going to 
do? What are you going to do? 

GILRUTH 

[^Creeps unsteadily to the door; steadying himself 
with a hand on the loch; his hack to the room. He 
speaks in a strange^ far-off, quavering voice.] She was 
on the Lusitania! Mona. She was on it. Mona was 
on it. 
[Creeps out through the street door and disappears. 

Dartrey looks after him.] 
[The curtain falls and, rises again in a ferv moments. 
Several days have elapsed. Dartrey, in full uniform, 
is busily packing his regimental kit. The bandage has 
been removed from his head. The telephone hell rings. 
Dartrey answers it.] 

DARTREY 

Yes. Yes. Who is it? Oh! Do. Yes. No. Not 

at all. Come up. All right. 

[Replaces the receiver and continues packing. In a 
few moments the door hell rings. Dartrey opens the 
outer door and brings Gilruth into the room. He is 
in deep mourning; is very white and broken. He 
seems grievously ill. Dartrey looks at him commis- 
eratingly. He is sensitive about speaking.] 

GILRUTH 

[Faintly.] Put up with me for a bit? Will you? 
[Dartrey just puts his hand on the man's shoulder.] 
[63] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

[GiLRUTH sinks wearily and lifelessly into a chair.^ 
She is buried. 



What? 



DARTREY 



GILRUTH 



[Nods.] She is buried. In Kensal Green. Half an 
hour ago. 

DARTREY 

[In a whisper.] They found her? 

GILRUTH 

[Nods again.] Picked up by some fishermen. 



Queenstown ? 



DARTREY 



GILRUTH 



A few miles outside. I went there that night and 
stayed there until — until she — they found her. [Covers 
his face. Dartrey puts his arm around him and presses 
his shoulder.] I wandered round there for days. Wasn't 
so bad while it was light. People to talk to. All of us 
on the same errand. Searching. Searching. Searching. 
Hoping — some of them. I didn't. I knew from the 
first. I knew. It was horrible at night alone. I had to 
try and sleep sometimes. They'd wake me when the 
bodies were brought in. Hers came toward dawn one 
morning. Three little babies, all twined in each other's 
arms, lying next to her. Three little babies. Cruel that. 
[64] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

Wasn't it? [Waits as he thinks; then he goes on dulhj, 
evenly, with no emotion.'] Fancy! She'd been out in 
that water for days and nights. All alone. Tossed 
about. Days and nights. She ! who'd never hurt a soul. 
Couldn't. She was always laughing and happy. Drift- 
ing about. All alone. Quite peaceful she looked. Ex- 
cept — except [Covers his eyes and groans. In a 

little while he looks up at Dartrey and touches his left 
eye.] This. Gone. Gulls. [Dartrey draws his breath 
in sharply and turns a little away.] In a few hours 
the cuts opened. The salt-water had kept them closed. 

DARTREY 

Cuts? 

GILRUTH 

INods.] Her head. And her face. Cuts. Blood 
after all that time. [He clenches and unclenches his 
hands nervously and furiously. He gets up slowly, walks 
over to the fireplace, shivers, then braces himself, trying 
to shake off the horror of his thoughts. Then he be- 
gins to speak brokenly and tremblingly, endeavoring to 
moisten his lips with a dry tongue.] 

Never saw anything to equal the kindness of those 
poor peasants. They gave the clothes from their bodies ; 
the blankets from their beds. And took nothing. Not a 
thing. "We're all in this," they said. "We're doing 
our best. It's little enough." That's what they said. 
Pretty fine, the Irish of Queenstown. Eh? 

[Dartrey nods. He does not trust himself to speak.] 
[65] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

A monument. That's what the Irish peasants of Queens- 
town should have. A monument. Never slept, some of 
them. Wrapped the soaking women in their shawls — 
and the little children. Took off their wet things and 
gave them dry, warm ones. Fed them with broths they 
cooked themselves. Spent their poor savings on brandy 
for them. Stripped the clothes off their own backs for 
them to travel in when they were well enough to go. And 
wouldn't take a thing. Great people, the Irish of Queens- 
town. Nothing much the matter with them. A monu- 
ment. That's what they should have. And poetry. 
'[Thinks for a little while, then goes ow.] Laid out the 
bodies, too; just as reverently as if they were their own 
people. They laid her out. And prayed over her. And 
watched with me until she was put into the — Such a 
tiny little shell it was, too. She had no father or mother 
or brothers or sisters. I was all she had. That's why 
I buried her here. Kensal Green. She'll rest easy 
there. [He walks about distractedly. Suddenly he stops 
and with his hands contended upwards as if in prayer, 
he cries.^ Out of my depths I cry to Thee. I call on 
you to curse them. Curse the Prussian brutes, made in 
Your likeness, but with hearts as the lowest of beasts. 
Curse them. May their hopes wither. May everything 
they set their hearts on rot. Send them pestilence, dis- 
ease and every foul torture they have visited on Your 
people. Send the Angel of Death to rid the earth of 
them and their spawn. May their souls burn in hell for 
all eternity. [QuicMy to Dartrey.] And if there is a 
God they will. But is there a good God 
[ 66 ] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

that such things can be and yet no sign from Him? 
Listen. I didn't believe in war. I reasoned 
against it. I shouted for Peace^ and thousands of cra- 
vens like me. I thought God was using this universal 
slaughter for a purpose. When His end was accom- 
plished He would cry to the warring peoples, "Stop !" 
It was His will, I thought, that out of much evil might 
come permanent good. That was my faith. It has gone. 
How can there be a good God to look down on His 
people tortured and maimed and butchered? The 
women, whose lives were devoted to Him, defiled. His 
temples looted, filled with the filth of the soldiery, and 
then destroyed. And yet no sign. Oh, no. My faith 
is gone. Now I want to murder and torture and mas- 
sacre the foul brutes. ... I'm going out, Dartrey. In 
any way. Just a private. I'll dig, carry my load, eat 
their rations. Vermin ! Mud. Ache in the cold and 
scorch in the heat. I will welcome it. Anything to 
stop the gnawing here, and the throbbing here. [Beat- 
ing at his head and heart.] iVnything to find vent for 
my hatred. [Moving restlessly about.] I'm going 
through Ireland first. Every town and village. It's 
our work now. It's Irishmen's work. All the Catholics 
will be in now. No more conscientious-objecting! They 
can't. It's a war on women and little children. All 
right. No Irish-Catholic will rest easy; eat, sleep and 
go his day's round after this. The call has gone out. 
America, too. She'll come in. You watch. She can't 
stay out. She's founded on Liberty. She'll fight for it. 
You see. It's clean against unclean. Red blood against 
[67] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

black filth. Carrion. Beasts. Swine. [Drops into a 
chair mumbling incoherently. Takes a long breath; 
looks at Dartrey.] I'm selling out everything at home. 

DARTREY 

Why? 

GILRUTH 

I'm not going back. I'm bringing everything over 
here. England, France, Russia, Belgium, Serbia — they 
can have it. All of it. They've suffered. Only now 
do I know how much. Only now. [Fiercely.'] I want 
to tear them — tear them as they've torn me. As they 
mangled her. [Grits his teeth and claws with his fin- 
gers.] Tear them — that's what I want to do. May I 
live to do it. May the war never end until every dirty 
Prussian is rotting in his grave. Then a quick end for 
me, too. I've nothing now. Nothing. [Gets up again 
wearily and dejectedly ; all the blazing passion burnt 
out momentarily.] This was to have been my wedding- 
day; our wedding day. Now she's Wing there, done to 
death by Huns. A few days ago all youth and fresh- 
ness and courage and love. Lying disfigured in her little 
coffin. I know what you meant now by wanting to go 
back for the third time. I couldn't understand it the 
other day. It seemed that everyone should hate war. 
But you've seen them. You know them. And you want 
to destroy them. That's it. Destroy. . . . The call is 
all over the world by now. Civilization will be in arms. 
. . . To hell with vour Pacifists. It's another name for 
[68] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

cowards. They'd lose those nearest them; the honour 
of their women; the liberty of their people — and never 
strike a blow. To hell with them. It's where they 
should be. I was one of them. No more. Wherever I 
meet them I'll spit in their faces. They disgrace the 
women they were born of; the country they claim. . . . 
To hell with them. 

DARTREY 

[Tries to soothe him.~\ You must try and get some 
grip on yourself. 

GILRUTH 

[His fingers ceaselessly locking and unlocking.] 
I'll be all right. It's a relief to talk to you. [Sees the 
preparations for Dartrey's departure.] Are you off? 



Yes. To-night. 



DARTREY 



GILRUTH 



I envy you now. I wish I were going. But I will 
soon. Ireland first. I must have my say there. What 
will the "Sinn Feiners" say to the Lusitania murder.^ I 
want to meet some of them. What are our wrongs of 
generations to this horror? All humanity is at stake 
here. I'll talk to them. ... I must. They'll have to 
do something now or go down branded through the gen- 
erations as Pro-German. Can a man have a worse epi- 
taph? No decent Irishman will bear that; every loyal 
Irishman must loathe them. . . . I'll talk to them — soul 
[69] 



GOD OF MY FAITH 

to soul. . . . Sorry, Dartrey. You have your own sor- 
row. . . . Good of you to put up with me. Now I'll 
go. . . . [Goes to door, stops, takes out wallet.'] Just 
one thing. If it won't bother you. [Tapping some pa- 
pers.] I've mentioned you here. If I don't come through 
— see to a few things for me. Will you? They're not 
much. Will you? 

DARTREY 

Of course I will. 

GILRUTH 

[Simply.] Thank you. You've always been decent 
to me. . . . Dartrey. To-day! You would have been 
my best man — and she's 

DARTREY 

[Shaking him hy the shoulders.] Come, pull up. 

GILRUTH 

I will. I'll be all right. In a little while I'll be along 
out there. I hope I serve under you. [Grips his hand.] 
Good-bye. 

DARTREY 

Keep in touch with me. 

GILRUTH 

All right. [Passes out, opens and closes the outer 
door behind him and disappears in the street. Dartrey 
resumes his preparations.] 

[70] 



Written February, 1919 



GOD'S OUTCAST 



Portraying the meeting of a man and a woman in 
the waiting room of an isolated railway-station. 



[73] 



GOD'S OUTCAST 

The waiting-room is old, shabby and neglected. It 
shelters but few and has little of greeting. 

Rough benches are 'placed against its crude walls on 
which are the remnants of faded time-tables, govern- 
ment announcements and rewards offered by the 
authorities for the detection of time-old criminals. 

In the centre of the room there is a stove with a pipe 
running up through the roof. Beside it are two rough 
wooden chairs. A dim, banhed-in fire is burning 
sullenly. 

Two faint gas-jets on each side of the door opening on 
to the platform feebly light a portion of the room. 

It is the most silent time of night. 

There is only the gentlest sound of rain pattering on 
dead leaves heard through a broken window. 

A WOMAN, wrapped closely in furs, comes in slowly 
through the door and, without looking around, goes to 
the stove and limply and noiselessly draws up a chair. 
She sinks slowly into it, sits back and closes her eyes 
in faintness or languor. 

Time passes with no sound but her fitful breathing. The 
movements of her body suggest that she is crying. A 
slight moan comes from her lips. It is low, feeble, 
despairing. 

[75] 



GOD'S OUTCAST 

Out of the darkness a man rises from a corner and 
listens. He is shrouded in a heavy ulster, the collar 
turned up concealing the lower part of his face. 

As the moans continue he walks slowly over to the 
woman and stands, bowed, peering down at her. He 
puts his hand out hesitatingly and timidly touches 
her. 

She does not start; just looks up at him dully with 
neither fear nor interest. 

THE MAN 

Don't do that. [She shivers and moves slightly so 
that her face is turned from him.^ 

Deep in trouble^ aren't je? [She does not speak.'] 

So am I. [Still she is silent.] 

Yet there is nothing can have made you suffer as I 

am suffering now. Is there any comfort in that? 

[Her shoulders contract as if through cold; he opens the 

door of the stove; a faint flicker of flame lights up 

her face. She is quite young; white and tear-stained. 

As the man stoops down to mend the fire with an 

implement he is seen to be rugged, powerful and past 

middle-age. His voice is that of an educated man: 

his manner, although distraught, is courteous and 

gentle.] 

The wind cuts tonight. And the rain ! I heard 
nothing until you opened the door. You didn't drive 
up? [She shakes her head.] 

Walked? [She nods.] 

Across the moor? [Again she signs 'yes.'] 
[76] 



GOD'S OUTCAST 

So did I. [Shivers.] 

It's ankle-deep in places. [Looks at her boots; 
kneels, takes out his handkerchief and wipes them.'] 

THE WOMAN 

[Withdrawing them.] Oh, don't. 

THE MAN 

All right. [Rises; waits; she does not speak,] 
Lost your way.'^ [She shakes her head,] 
You have not come for a train? [She nods.] 
You'll have a long wait. [She turns away impa- 
tiently.] 

I'll go out on the platform if you'd rather I did. 
[She shakes her head as though it were a matter af 
indifference to her. He continues to look down at 
her, yearningly, discouragedly. Convinced finally he 
is not wanted he softly creeps back to the corner and 
huddles in the dark, covering his eyes with his hands,] 
[The woman looks up and listens: misses him from be- 
side her; looks around slowly, glimpsing into the dark 
corners. The man is breathing heavily inward; his 
body quivers with suppressed sobs. She rises, goes 
over to him and stands looking down at him. Follow- 
ing a compassionate impulse, she touches him on the 
shoulder. He drops his hands quickly and springs 
up.] 

THE WOMAN 

Why do you crv? 

[ 77 ] 



GOD'S OUTCAST 

THE MAN 

To get relief. Just as you did. As you are doing. 

THE WOMAN 

Does it relieve you? 

THE MAN 

No. Does it you.^ 

THE WOMAN 

Yes. 

THE MAN 

There are millions of women crying at this moment. 

Because they've lost someone. Someone dear 

to them. Have you ? 

THE WOMAN 

Yes. 

THE MAN 

The tears that are being shed — by women. It 

eases their grief. As children. Children and 

women cry so easil}^ And forget so soon. • 

When men weep their sorrow hardens. Tears hurt 

them. They scald. They are unbearable. 

When they cry they have reached the end. I have. 

THE WOMAN 

{^Gently tahes him hy the sleeve and leads him to the 
fire. She moves a chair in front of it and Tnotions 
[78] 



GOD'S OUTCAST 



him 


to sit. 


She draws up the 


other 


chair and 


sinks 


into 


it.] 












Tell 


me. 




THE MAN 








May 


I> 




THE WOMAN 








Do. 


You've 


lost 


some one? 

THE MAN 








Yes. 






THE WOMAN 








Your wife? 













THE MAN 

Years ago. That's healed. 

THE WOMAN 

Your son ? 

THE MAN 

[Vehemently.'] My son^ brother, play-fellow, confi- 
dante — all in one. 

THE WOMAN 

[Nodding understandingly.'] I know. 

THE MAN 

[Distractedly.'] All in one. ^ Gone. Lost. Rot- 
ting. Oh-h-h ! 
[Swaying as he moans. After a while he goes on 

fiercely.] 

What a huddling, shuffling, choking thing life is. The 
more we love, the more eagerly we bruise and maim and 
gibe and scoff at and tease and tear the one we love. 
[79] 



GOD'S OUTCAST 

We do. Propinquity does that. We're 

ashamed to be affectionate all the time. The sub- 
conscious brute in us. The instinct that drives us 

to hurt those we would give the last breath in our bodies 

to save from hurt. That's our heritage. All the 

sins of all the ages have left their lees in our brains. 

All the foulness of centuries is sown in the infant 

and it ripens and throws out its rancid growth. 

From them come the murderers and brutes and ruffians 

who butcher. And yet they prate of Free- Will ! 

Of carving our destinies ! Oh, we can carve them. 

But when we reach a certain point the 'throw- 
back' in us presses on the thumb of fate and it turns 
downwards and drives us its way. We are driven from 
within. And we hurt — hurt — always hurt.^ 

THE WOMAN 

Sometimes the thumb of fate points upwards and 
we love. 

THE MAN 

The stronger we love the more we bruise. 

THE WOMAN 

Did you? 

THE MAN 

God forgive me. May the good God forgive me. As 

I look back I see I did. Yes, I see it. I'd put my 

hands under his feet to walk on yet I'd refuse him some 

little wish that meant present happiness to him. 

Death makes all things clear, even to the living. 1 

[80] 



GOD'S OUTCAST 

see it. Yes, I see it. 1 tended him as a baby 

when his mother died. 1 sat night and day with 

him when he was ill. Companioned him as he grew 

year by year. And all the while I was a tyrant. 

1 wanted him solely to myself. Jealous of all who 

came near him. Next to his God his country. Be- 
fore all else — save his God — his country. Better 

a clod of earth on your native land than a prince in any 

other. Be the humblest outcast in your own country 

rather than possess millions and renounce your birth- 
right. Always that. Loyalty. Service. Live 

your life in and go to death for — your country. 

And he listened eagerly. He agreed readily. 

Little did I know I was shaping the weapon that would 

cut off our lives. They're cut off. Ended. 

The weapon has cut surely. Why should you have 

to listen to this. [Rising.^ 

THE WOMAN 

Go on. [Waits.] I want you to go on. 

THE MAN 

[Beats his forehead rvith the back of his hand; sits.'] 
When he went to school I relearnt the lessons of my 
youth so that I might share in his little mind. Every 

step of his university-life I kept pace with. He 

followed all my well-beaten roads. Everything he 

enjoyed I made myself like. I adapted my tastes, 

my habits, my life to his. 1 was wrong. Lives 

must develop alone — apart. When they grow to- 

[81] 



GOD'S OUTCAST 

gether you reap the whirlwind. Cut off one and the 

survivor has nothing left. Unfair to both. I 

was unfair. To him. To myself. I am 

punished. Affection made me a despot, a slave ; 

father, brother, twin — in thought, in work, in play — 
in death — [His head droops as his hands clench 
tightly.'] In death. 

THE WOMAN 

How did he die? 

THE MAN 

Following my teaching. For his country ! 

THE WOMAN 

[Shivering and contracting.] I see. Oh yes. 

I see. 

THE MAN 

The body I had urged him to strengthen; the brain 
I had helped him to discipline; the loyalty I had in- 
stilled into him since he could first understand — I 
sent it all — to — what? To end in — just three 

words: — "Killed in Action !" And I am left. I 

wanted them to take me. Look at me. [Springs 

up, straightening his powerful figure.] I'm strong as 
he ever was. I don't tire. I've never known fatigue. 
I could lead men. I could serve too. My organs are 

sound. My limbs whole. My brain keen. But no. 

I've lived too long. By a few years. Just a few years. 

So I was not wanted. And I, the tyrant, followed 

as a slave the boy who had glorious youth to offer in 
[82] 



GOD'S OUTCAST 

the sublime adventure. Followed as a dog — at — 
heel. From camp to camp, I watched hhn straighten 
and bronze and move as a machine. I saw the first 
gleam in his eye of the desire to kill. Heard the new 
note in his voice as he spoke the abrupt word of com- 
mand. At the dock as he went aboard the troopship 

he said, voice clear and eye-shining: — "Father, at last 

I can serve!'* I had not taught him in vain. I 

had sent him to serve and to die. 1, useless, live. 

Unfair, eh? Unjust, isn't it? But isn't it unjust? My 
few years could mean nothing. He was just at the 

bud. Letters from the ship. From huts. From 

the trenches. Accounts of attack. Sometimes retreat. 
Now buoyant. Now uncertain. But always the glory: 

"I serve !" Now he stands clean and bright and 

holy before his God. "Present!" he cried, when his 

name was called. Aye ! "I served and died, my 

God, for You and my country." And he sleeps 

lightly in a shallow grave under a white cross in the 

land he went to save. "He served and died." The 

epitaph of millions. 

THE WOMAN 

[/« a strained, hoarse voice.'] When was he killed? 

THE MAN 

Weeks back. The news came this morning. Only 

this morning. Yet I seemed to know it. For 

days. Nights. Long interminable nights. 

I felt he was trying to speak to me. And I 

strained to listen. At times I'd call out to him. 

[83] 



GOD'S OUTCAST 

I wonder if he heard ? He must have heard ! 

And all those days he was lying in his narrow resting- 
place, and I only knew today. [Wearily.] 

I couldn't stay there. No. Not where he was 

born. Where he grew; and ripened. Everything was 

of him. The whinny of a pony seemed to wail: 

"Master's gone." The shrinking, red-eyed servants 

mute and piteous. Their lips seemed to phrase, "He's 

gone !" To-night, — just before I came away — his 

dog thrust a hot snout into my palm and whined. His 
eyes were frightened, entreating. He seemed to know. 

So I pitied him. And killed him. He'd 

have died of grief. Better a bullet. He's at peace. 

Dropped without a cry. He's lying there as 

if asleep — paws out — head on them. At peace — so 

must I be. My work's done. 1 want to rest. 

[Sighs tiredly.'] 

THE WOMAN 

[Her eyes distended.'] Is that why you came here? 

THE MAN 

[Nods.] My last journey. I never thought to see a 

living being again. Then you came in. You cried. 

It seemed no one had the right to cry before a grief 
like mine. So I spoke to you. I told you nothing could 
make you suffer as I was suifering. Wasn't I right? 

THE WOMAN \ 

[Vehemently.] No. Indeed — No. 
[ 84 ] 



GOD'S OUTCAST 

THE MAN 

[Incredulously. Ji You think your sorrow greater 
than mine? 

THE WOMAN 

Indeed it is. 

THE MAN 

[Impatiently. ] Ah ! 

THE WOMAN 

You have had years with your boy. You watched 
him grow from a baby to youth — to manhood. Always 
beside him. You shared all those years with him — 
happy. You have them to look back on. You have the 
remembrance of a full life. 

THE MAN 

Remembrance ! It is life to woman. It makes it 
full. It is agony to me. It leaves mine empty. 

THE WOMAN 

There are millions of empty lives that will fill again. 

THE MAN 

Mine won't. It's ended now. 



THE WOMAN 



How? 



THE MAN 

It's finished. Done. My work's over. I'm going 



to find peace. 



[85] 



GOD'S OUTCAST 

THE WOMAN 

[Eagerly; her eyes shining.^ I'm going to find 
peace^ too. 

THE MAN 

You*ll find it in life. You're young. On the border. 
The years stretch before you. They're behind me. 

THE WOMAN 

[Breathlessly.'] They're behind me too. My life is 
buried^ too, under a little white cross. 

THE MAN 

[Glorving.] In France.^ 

THE WOMAN 

In Palestine. My love is buried in the shadow of 
Nazareth. He, too, died to save mankind. 

THE MAN 

Your husband? 

THE WOMAN 

Yes — my husband. For a month. Just a month. 
[He shivers.'] He was my playmate, my confidante, my 
Lord, my all. There has never been a day since girl- 
hood that he has not been with me or in my thoughts. 
There has not been an act of mine he did not influence. 
I have lived only for him — for the time we could be 

together always. He could not have lived without 

me. I can't without him. The news came to me 

today. So 7 — came — here. 

[86] 



GOD'S OUTCAST 

THE MAN 

[ThinJcs: then looks at her. In horror.'] What train 
did you come to meet? 

THE WOMAN 

The midnight-express. 

THE MAN 

[Breathlessly.^ It doesn't stop. [/n* a whis- 
per.^ It — does — not — stop! 

THE WOMAN 

I know. 

THE MAN 

[^Looking piercingly into her eyes.] Not — that! 

THE WOMAN 

[ U71 flinching. ] Yes — that. 

THE MAN 

It would be horrible. 

THE WOMAN 

Why? 

THE MAN 

For me? What matters. I'm old. But you — 

THE WOMAN 

My life is buried with my love in the Holy Land. 
[87] 



GOD'S OUTCAST 

THE MAN 

But can't you see — ? 

THE WOMAN 

I join him tonight. Wherever he is I am going to 
him. 

THE MAN 

[Roughly.] I won't let you. 

THE WOMAN 

[Dulli/.] Very well. Stop me — here. I'll do it 
somewhere else. 

THE MAN 

[Moaning and muttering.'] The only thing. She's 
right. The only thing. 

THE WOMAN 

It's why you're here. 

THE MAN 

Yes. 

THE WOMAN 



An accident — they'll say 



THE MAN 

[Nods.] It was in my mind, too. 

THE WOMAN 

The thumb of fate is pointing down, fellow traveller. 
[88] 



GOD'S OUTCAST 

[Faintly in the distance can he heard the screech of the 
train. She leans against the door, momentarily weak.'] 

THE MAN 

[Hoarsely, beside her.] Don't do it. 

THE WOMAN 

[Faintly.] I must. [Rallying.] I'm right now. 
Give me your hand^ fellow traveller. [Catches his 
hand. The whistle sounds Clearer.] 



THE MAN 



Are you afraid.^ 



THE WOMAN 

[Firmly.] No. It will be just a leap in the dark. 

THE MAN 

[Nods.] A leap in the dark — then peace. 

THE WOMAN 

[Kneeling, hands clasped, looking upward.] Oh Thou 
who lookest down on us all^ who knows our hearts curse 
the wretches who brought this waste of grief on mankind. 
May their power wither from this earth. May they be 
accursed even to the third generation. May their rulers 
perish by the hand of Justice. May their followers 
groan under the yoke they placed on Your people. May 
their hearts ache with misery until their people is purged 
through expiation of their foul crimes. Curse them^ oh 
my Lord. Curse them. [Rises.] 
[89] 



GOD'S OUTCAST 



THE MAN 



[Hoarsely.'] Amen. 
[The whistle sounds nearer."] 

THE MAN 

Ready? 

THE WOMAN 

Yes. [The Man puts his hand on the knob of the 
door; the Woman looks upwards supplicatingly.] May- 
God have mercy on us. And He will have mercy on us. 
Won't he.? 

THE MAN 

Of course He will. [Laughs harshly.] There are 

fools who say the suicide is damned. Put apart. 

God's outcast. 

THE WOMAN 

[Her teeth chatter and her body shivers with fear of the 
Unknown. With a scream; shaking and chattering.] 
God's Outcast! Suppose it's true.'' Oh, my God! 
Suppose it's ^rwe.' If / were put apart! Never to see 
him ! Never to see my beloved for all eternity ! [Goes 
on muttering and moaning incoherently.] 

THE MAN 

[Roughly.] Stop that. We've suffered here. Here ! 
Haven't we? 

[90] 



GOD'S OUTCAST 

THE WOMAN 

[Hystericalli/.] I couldn't bear that. I couldn't bear 
it ! Never to see him. Never to be near him. [Looking 
upward, crying out fr antic ally. 1 Help me to live, that 
I may join him. Help me to live — to live — [The 
scream of the train is heard quite near. The Man puts 
his hand violently on the handle of the door. Grips 
him.] Don't do it. [Breathlessly.] You'll be apart. 
Apart — for ail eternity! Don't! [Holds him.] 
The train dashes through; the whistle screaming; the 

sparJcs from the engine and the lamps in carriages 

flashing past the window; the room trembling and 

shaking from the vibration. 
Faintly in the distance can be heard the whistle — 

Then silence. 
The Woman is leaning against the door. 
The Man is peering out into the darkness through the 

broken window. After a while he turns away and 

looks down at her. 

THE MAN 

It wasn't because we were afraid. Was it ? 

THE WOMAN 

No. We were afraid to live. 

That's it. It takes courage to live. For us. 

Yes. That's it. We were afraid to live. 

We mustn't be. [Shivers.] I won't be. 

the man 
[Thinking.] It would be horrible to be apart. 
[91] 



GOD'S OUTCAST 

THE WOMAN 

[Atved,"] Horrible! For all eternity. 

THE MAN 

[With new resolve.] All right. It will need 

courage. All right. [Suddenly.] I can't go back 

thei^e. 

THE WOMAN 

Nor I. [Thinking.'] Not there. 

THE MAN 

The next train stops. 

THE WOMAN 

I'll wait for it. 
She wearily/ draws up a chair and sits staring into the 

fire. 
The Man creeps noiselessly bach to the corner and sits 

huddled in the shadows. 
After a while the Curtain shuts them out of sight. 



[92] 



